Hostage to Death Read online

  *

  Drude hurried into the house in Yexton which had, for Thomas, Chase, Brent, and Jenkins, become just as much of a prison — albeit a comfortable one — as the one from which they had escaped. He found them in the sitting room, watching racing on the television. “Val — I’ve found him.”

  Thomas swung round in his chair. “You’ve found Dutch?”

  “He got picked up in Astonfield for being blind drunk. Some smart Alec of a mouthpiece managed to get him off with a suspended sentence and a fine.”

  “So where’s he now?”

  “Back at his place.”

  Thomas balled his powerful hands.

  Chapter 12

  On their honeymoon Penelope and Steen had stayed in a family hotel in Puerto Llueyo and the beauty of the bay had so fixed itself in Steen’s memory he had decided this would be the area in which they’d live. For once, a return visit proved not to be a terrible mistake. The large bay, fringed by mountains which were not overpoweringly high, water deep blue, free of a single high-rise hotel, remained as beautiful as ever and as he stood at the end of the eastern arm of the small harbour, close to the gangway of a large motor yacht, he thought that this was an enchanted land.

  The hot sun brought out the sweat on his arms and the back of his neck as he imagined Penelope standing by his side. She would enjoy living out here, not solely because of the better health she would enjoy. With a quick, enquiring mind, a light sense of the ridiculous, and no automatic respect for either wealth or position, she was never wholly happy with the circle of acquaintances they had at Scranton Cross because she found their standards so arbitrary and wrongly based. Out here, he sensed, there were no set standards — people were largely accepted for themselves, without reference to their bank balances or ancestors.

  He half turned and stared along the row of yachts and motor launches which ferried people to the justly famous Murelona Beach and he saw a fisherman, gnarled, burned walnut brown by the sun, who was mending a net. He would have liked to paint that man because he sensed that in him were all the virtues and vices of a stubborn, peasant, island race. He wondered what the old man thought about the flood of tourism which had altered his, and every other islander’s, life so dramatically? Did he still remember the poverty and hardship he had once known, especially after the Civil War when food had been in even shorter supply than during it? Had he had brothers and sisters who had suffered the full viciousness of that fratricidal conflict? If only he were a good enough painter to put these questions and their answers into the face of the fisherman…

  He walked back down the harbour arm, past the yachts, the ferries, the fishing boats, and the gnarled fisherman who worked the shuttle with tireless dexterity, to his rented Seat 600. He climbed in and drove through the Puerto and along the six kilometres to Llueyo, an old town whose narrow, pavement-less roads were far more suited to the donkey-cart than to the car.

  The solicitor to whom he’d been recommended lived and had his office in a house in Calle Mayor whose stark, shuttered exterior gave no hint of the spacious, almost luxurious interior. A middle-aged, largely toothless woman opened the door to his ring and she asked him in Spanish — he presumed that was what she asked him — to wait on one of the velveteen covered chairs in the entrance hall which clearly did second service as a waiting room. His wait was less than a couple of minutes. Cifret came out of the room immediately on his right, greeted him in English, and shook hands with Spanish enthusiasm. He then led the way into a long, rectangular room, filled to overflowing with bookcases, filing cabinets, stacks of papers, an enormous desk, chairs, and a dusty, overgrown rubber plant.

  For a short time, Cifret spoke generalities — how was Steen enjoying the weather? Had he been to Mallorca and Llueyo before? Where was he staying? Then he leaned back in his chair and said: “And, Señor, you want to ask me some things?” His English was fluent, with a sharp American accent which Steen guessed to be mid-Western in origin.

  “I’ve come to ask if you can do something for me.” Cifret had been referred to as a man as sharp as a razor who’d chase a peseta over the Himalayas. But would he be prepared to take legal risks? Steen studied the unlined face with the very old and knowing eyes. “You know that in England we have a lot of currency regulations?” he asked, speaking as vague as possible until he could be certain Cifret would be sympathetic towards his proposal.

  Cifret smiled — the smile did not reach those aged eyes — as he said: “Señor, most countries have many rules and regulations, but usually they are of no importance. If you wish some money from England to Spain it is easy. You pay pounds to my friend in England and I pay you pesetas here. All it costs you is ten per cent and it will take about a fortnight.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but it’s not my problem. I already have the pesetas out here.”

  “Then perhaps you wish the money back in England? You are not supposed to take the money out with you, but give me the pesetas and you will be given pounds from my friend in England. It is again ten per cent only.”

  “What I want to do is to buy a house in this area.”

  Cifret failed to conceal his irritation. “But that is simple. I do not understand your trouble. You have the money, I know of many houses…”

  “It must cost about two and a half million pesetas and it’s to be bought in the name of my uncle. That is the problem.”

  “But again there is no trouble…”

  “My uncle has been dead for a long time.”

  Cifret shifted in his chair and he fidgeted with an old-fashioned, heavy silver ink-well. “But if he is dead…” He held out his hands and shrugged his shoulders.

  “What I propose is that my uncle owns the house for a little and then dies. Officially dies, that is.”

  Cifret said nothing.

  “You will write to me in England and tell me of his death. You’ll also send me a copy of the will in which he leaves me all his property on the island.”

  “When a man dies, señor, there are many papers to manage, especially when it is a foreigner.”

  “Does that mean you can’t handle them?”

  Cifret pursed his lips. “I would have troubles. But I am very used to troubles. There is something else you must understand. When a man dies there are taxes to be paid.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And the fees to arrange the house to be in your name would perhaps be considerable.”

  “I expect they would.”

  “Much money would be saved if you should buy the house in your name and do not worry about your dead uncle who is to die.”

  “Perhaps I would much rather not save the money.”

  Cifret picked up a pencil and wrote some figures down on the top sheet of his notebook. “I will tell you again, señor, that when a foreigner dies on this island many papers have to be sent to Madrid. To get these papers ready when no one has died will be… Very complicated.”

  “How much?” asked Steen bluntly.

  Cifret was upset by so crude an approach, but he told himself that the English never had been noted for their finesse. If the house were to cost two and a half million… The Englishman did not look wealthy, but since when did the fattest pig look the most beautiful? …How illegal, how risky, how many backhanders would have to be paid out? “Just to obtain such papers, señor, might cost as much as… Five hundred thousand pesetas.”

  *

  Penelope met him at the station, just beyond the barrier which was up on the complex built out over the tracks. She came forward and gave him a brief, chaste kiss on the right cheek, but her eyes were warm with a far more expressive love. “How are you, darling?”

  He linked his free arm with hers and together they walked towards the stairs which led down to the carpark. “As fit as a fiddle.”

  “I must say you look terrific. I’m sure you’ve even got a tan.”

  “That wouldn’t be surprising since it was sunshine from start to finish.”

  “An
d we’ve been having clouds and more clouds! Did you go swimming?”

  “At every possible opportunity.”

  They reached the foot of the stairs and crossed to the outside, opened doors. A taxi driver looked hopefully at them, but they passed him and crossed to their battered Ford which was double-parked.

  “So you really enjoyed it?” she asked.

  “What d’you think? Do you remember the bay?”

  “Don’t I just! Those nights with the moonlight cutting across and the reflection of all the shore lights jiggling in the water? The fishermen out in the middle with the lights on the stem of their boats, spearing octopuses, or whatever it was they were spearing… Is it still as beautiful. Bill, or have they ruined it with building?”

  “Just as beautiful,” he said, as he opened the passenger door for her. “I kept looking at it and thinking that if we were there together it would be dangerously like paradise.”

  “Dangerously?”

  Paradise was always dangerous, he thought as he walked round to the driving side of the Ford. He sat down behind the wheel. “Uncle Silas turned out to be tremendous fun. He’s got the same kind of ironic humour as Father had — in fact it was rather like meeting an older father except that Uncle Silas is almost bald.”

  “I’m so glad you liked him. Was his house nice?”

  “It’s a modernised finca surrounded by orange and lemon trees and with a vine-covered patio. If you go upstairs and lean out of the window just far enough not to fall out you can see the bay: at the back of the house are the mountains which are just the right size and don’t make one feel horribly insignificant.”

  “You make me want to rush to take the next plane out there!”

  He started the engine. “Uncle Silas told me he was leaving me the place.”

  She half turned in her seat and stared at him. “Oh, Bill!” she exclaimed, in tones of wonderment. Then, being a practical woman, she added: “He’ll probably change his mind. Old people often do. And even if he doesn’t, we couldn’t afford to live out there.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking.” He drove off. “He must be living on capital, so there’d probably be some of that left. If we sold our house we’d have a bit over after the mortgage was paid off and on top of that maybe I could make a little from my paintings. I was talking to Uncle Silas about you and how we’d give anything to move to somewhere like the island and he said I might quite easily make some money — there are lots of artists who live near Llueyo and there are two galleries which have art exhibitions all the year round. I went into one of them and I don’t think my stuff is any worse than some I saw. It’s just possible I could sell enough chocolate-box to help pay for our food.”

  She spoke indignantly. “Stop talking about your painting like that. It’s good and if you really worked at it, it would be very good…” Her voice changed tone and became wistful. “Bill, do you really think there’s a chance that he’ll leave the house to you?”

  “Yes, I do. He’s no other close relative. And we got on very well with each other.”

  “So one day we might live there and I wouldn’t be ill so often and I could do so much more?”

  “I don’t think that ‘one day’ can be very far off. He’s not been fit for some time and the specialist’s diagnosed cancer.”

  “Oh! The poor man.”

  “He doesn’t expect to live for more than a few months, but that doesn’t seem to worry him very much. Either that or he’s incredibly brave. He asked me if I’d go out and see him again. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Penny, even if I had to try and soften up old Wraight again to increase the overdraft?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. To think of him out there, on his own with no relatives to help. It’s terribly sad.”

  Poor Uncle Silas, he thought.

  *

  Thomas and Chase waited in the car, stolen that morning, in the Fox and Hounds carpark. A large horse chestnut tree grew in the corner and they had drawn into its shadow so that, despite the outside light on the side of the building, their features were virtually indistinguishable.

  “How much has he poured down his throat?” asked Chase angrily.

  “Not even he can have swallowed two hundred and seventy-five thousand quid’s worth of booze.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought the bastard had it in him to do the switch.”

  It was a point which had worried Thomas. Dutch Keen was probably not a courageous man, nor except when drunk was he a fool: yet only a very brave man or a fool would have switched that money. And even a very brave man or a fool would then surely have disappeared for good?

  They became silent, each man deep in his own thoughts.

  At closing time, half a dozen men left the pub, two of them coming round to the outside lavatory. They saw Dutch Keen stand immediately outside the saloon bar entrance to talk, with much arm waving, to a man who looked as drunk as he, then walk away with jerky strides which suggested he was having to concentrate on each step.

  Chase climbed out of the car. Thomas drove out of the carpark and turned left, went past the bowls club and along the curving road which brought him to the east side of the common, a fifty-acre space crossed by two roads that were lined with trees. At the crossroads which virtually marked the centre of the common he turned left and saw ahead of him the plodding figure of Keen and, behind him, Chase. Thomas slowed the car as he checked in the rear-view mirror, then came to a stop in the shadow of trees halfway between street lights.

  Keen came level with the car. “Evening, Dutch,” Thomas said.

  Had he been sober, Keen would have taken fright, but he came to a swaying stop and stared at the car and Thomas with worried perplexity.

  Chase reached Keen’s side. “Get in,” he ordered. He opened the back door.

  “You’re going to take me home? That’s real good of you,” said Keen, with gushing pleasure. “To tell the truth — not a word of a lie, eh? — I’m tired. Been working too hard…”

  Chase pushed him and he sprawled forward, hitting his shin on the door sill. As he struggled up into a sitting position, he said: “There wasn’t any need to do that: I’ve hurt my foot now.” He belched. Chase sat beside him. “You know, there wasn’t no need to push me like that. I hurt myself.”

  “So we’ll call a bloody ambulance.”

  As Thomas drove off he heard Keen mumble something and Chase’s order to belt up.

  They turned right.

  “I live along the other way,” said Keen. “I’ve got a room in a house. Look, you go right there and you can cut through.”

  Thomas drove straight on. “We’ve a drink or two lined up for you, Dutch. Thought you’d like to celebrate.”

  “Always ready to celebrate, that’s me. As I always say… But what are we celebrating?”

  No one answered him and after a short while he drifted off into a drunken stupor.

  Beyond the common was the suburb of Deerling and this stretched to the outskirts of Techington. They reached open countryside, beginning to green up again after the previous long, dry spell and four miles out came to a small wood which backed a disused gravel pit. They parked just inside the wood, in a natural clearing, and jerked Keen awake. He mumbled questions, seemed unperturbed when he received no answers, and followed Thomas along the narrow ride.

  There was some broken-down fencing over which they scrambled and then, Chase and Thomas supporting him, they went down a steeply sloping side of a pit to the water’s edge.

  When Keen saw the scummy surface of the water in the torchlight he spoke petulantly. “You said we was going to have a drink to celebrate. We can’t celebrate nothing here. We need a drink to celebrate…”

  “Where’s the money?” demanded Thomas, his voice vicious.

  “Money? I thought it was you going to give me a drink. But if you want me to pay for the round…”

  Thomas punched Keen in the stomach and he doubled up. Chase kicked him in the side and he collapsed into the water. Tho
mas grabbed his legs and twisted him over, to hold his head under water. Keen frantically tried to free himself, but couldn’t.

  After a while Thomas let go of Keen and he surfaced. He choked violently, green slime slithering down his face. “What d’you do that for?” he demanded, with pathetic indignation. He dragged himself to his feet and clasped his stomach with his hands.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “What money? What are you on about?”

  “The money that was in the suitcase.”

  His bewildered mind at last understood and with understanding came a delayed identification. “You’re… you’re Val Thomas.”

  “And I want the two hundred and seventy-five grand.”

  He squelched his way out of the water. “Why d’you belt me in the guts and near drown me?”

  “Listen, Dutch, to begin with you was smart, a sight smarter than I reckoned on. And maybe you’d of stayed smart if we’d remained in the nick. Only we didn’t and you got bloody dumb and stayed around.”

  “But why should I…?”

  “D’you know what was in that suitcase?”

  “If I’d known at the time, I wouldn’t’ve done the job for five grand…”

  “So what was inside it when you handed it on?”

  “You know as well as me. Two hundred and seventy-five…”

  “A load of papers and files. It was a smooth, smart switch, Dutch.” Thomas paused, then added: “Only like I just said, you got dumb when you stayed around.”

  “I… I did a switch?” He laughed.

  They hit him, kicked him, and held his head under water until he lost consciousness.

  When he regained consciousness, Thomas said: “I want that money, Dutch.”

  He was on all fours, trying to vomit and not quite succeeding. He was bleeding from his mouth and he explored with his tongue a gap where a tooth had been kicked out. “I didn’t do no switch.” His words were slushy because of the state of his mouth.